


Quitting

by there_must_be_a_lock



Series: Coffee & Psychopaths [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Canon Related, Coffee, Developing Friendships, Gen, Past Drug Addiction, Psychology, Soft Dorky Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24647581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: In which Sam and Spencer go to NA meetings, drink too much coffee, and talk about bioluminescent bacteria/human nature. For two people who are volunteering a bare minimum of personal information, they understand each other pretty well.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Sam Winchester
Series: Coffee & Psychopaths [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871419
Comments: 28
Kudos: 329





	Quitting

> _“Wherever you go, you take yourself with you.”  
>    
>  Neil Gaiman_

_-_

Spencer notices his posture first. He’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched, like that could disguise how big he is: tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. All the slouching in the world can’t hide the way the plastic folding chair looks even more flimsy under him.

His face looks familiar, somehow, but Spencer can’t place it.

He takes in the rest: rough hands clasped loosely in his lap, thin faded flannel, eyes that look a hundred years older than the rest of him. There’s something wary and haunted in his face that Spencer usually associates with vets fresh out of combat, but there’s nothing military about that hair. He’s interesting; his different parts contradict each other. They don’t add up to a cohesive whole, not right away, not without more information.

The profiling part of his brain sees the guy as a puzzle to be solved. Spencer turns it off, with a conscious effort, and listens instead.

“I’m Keith.”

(“Hi, Keith.”)

It’s a lie. He’s a good liar, as they go, but it’s a lie. It’s a fresh lie, doesn’t fall off his tongue quite right; this is new for him. Spencer thought about using a fake name the first time, too. He still doesn’t feel like this church basement is part of his real life. He knows that mindset is problematic. 

The guy just shrugs and shakes his head when he’s asked if he has anything else he’d like to share. That’s a lie, too. He’s got one hell of a story, Spencer would bet money on it, and he looks like he’s choking on all the things he’s not saying.

“My name is Spencer.”

(“Hi, Spencer.”)

“I talked last week about… someone I couldn’t help. Someone I wasn’t able to save. I think I’m angry, mostly. I’m angry at myself. I’m angry at a lot of things, really.”

Spencer didn’t mean to admit that. He picks at a loose thread in the cuff of his sweater, frowning, trying to figure out why he feels so exposed and strange right now. His _job_ is seeing the truth, cutting through to the facts, and the plain hard fact is that he’s angry. He knows it’s a normal reaction, if not a completely rational one. He knows. He still hates saying it out loud. Anger is much easier to understand when he’s _seeing_ it, instead of feeling it.

He can hear the agitation in his own voice as he starts talking again, the words coming faster now: “I just want a break from it. From feeling angry all the time. I just… want to be someone else for a little while. Someone who doesn’t have to see these things on a loop in my head all the time. Someone who’s happy. Someone normal.”

He cuts himself off. “Keith” is looking up at him. Spencer doesn’t meet his eyes directly, but he can feel the intensity in his stare.

“Drug use was the easiest way to do that, really. That’s what it boils down to. I could quit the job, but… no. No, that’s a lie. I don’t think I _could_ quit. It was easier to stop using drugs than it would be to try living a normal life.”

It’s not what he meant to say. Everyone’s looking at him. He looks down at his own hands (soft, spindly, balled into white-knuckled fists) feeling suddenly too aware of his own long limbs, the way he’s standing, the way he fidgets. Like a junkie. He probably looks like a junkie.

“I just wish I could get away from the memories,” he mumbles.

He sits down. When they take a break for snacks a few minutes later, he goes right for the door. He tells himself he’s not running away. He knows it’s a lie.

-

Sam dreams about Jessica. There’s blood dripping from the ceiling of his motel room, trickling down, and he can taste it on his tongue even as he opens his eyes and sees Jessica staring back at him with her mouth open in a silent scream.

He hears Dean’s voice: _Sammy? Sammy!_

Sam scrambles out of bed and chases after him, blood up to his ankles, splashing with every labored step.

The voice goes distant, faint, calling out, _Stop following me, Sammy. Can’t be around you when you’re like this._

Sam looks down. There’s blood on his hands, blood up to his knees and rising steadily, thick and sticky, making it harder to run. It clings, weighs him down, like tar. He sees Dean’s silhouette in the distance, but he knows he can’t catch up.

Jessica’s laughing, somewhere, sweet and pitying. _You’re always going to be a freak, Sam. You know it as well as I do._

Sam tries to wade after Dean. He’s making progress, somehow; Dean’s almost within reach.

_This is for your own good._

Dean closes the door behind himself with a clang, and Sam’s alone in Bobby’s panic room again, frantically trying to wipe off his hands, his mouth, but he can’t get clean. 

_We all know how this ends. Stop trying to run from it._

-

Spencer dreams about blood. It’s spreading like a halo around the kid’s head as he stares accusingly up at Spencer, spreading too fast over the clean white tile, rippling out and lapping at Spencer’s toes. He wants to run.

Why can’t he run?

The goalpost is cold at his back, but the blood is hot as it surges up around his knees. Someone is laughing from the shadows.

 _Please_ , Spencer tries to say. _Just let me go._

It’s up to his chest, now, and they’re all watching, smiling, giggling. He’ll never forget those faces. The kid is there, too, staring at him with blank unseeing eyes. Spencer twists and turns, pulling against the ropes as they bite into his arms.

_Can’t get away, might as well stop trying._

_God, such a freak._

Spencer tilts his chin up, trying to keep his head above the surface, and pleads, _Why won’t you help me?_

 _Why didn’t you help **me**?_ the kid spits. _Stop trying to run from it. This is what you deserve._

He’s right. Spencer can taste copper, thick in his throat. He’s going to drown here.

_Can’t run away from who you are, freak._

-

The happy hour rush just ended and it’s too early for the hardcore barflies, so there’s not much else to do besides people-watch; Sam looks around as soon as the door opens. Feels like a century since the meeting, but it’s only been two days. Sam recognizes the guy right away. Spencer.

Sam watched him, the way he’d go distant sometimes, staring intently at nothing, too focused on whatever was happening in his head to care about the scene in front of him. The rest of the time, his gaze whizzed back and forth like he was memorizing every detail of the world around him. That’s what he’s doing now, as he walks toward the bar. His eyes are darting around in a way that reminds Sam of a hunter: scanning the room, cataloguing the possible threats, noting the exits.

Then he sees Sam, and he blinks a couple times, visibly surprised. His lips twitch into a little half-smile, but then he seems to catch himself, frowning, until Sam gives him a grin and a nod. The half-smile is back.

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” he blurts out, sliding onto a barstool. “And then I wasn’t sure if it was bad manners to say hello, y’know, considering… um. Anonymous. I’m not really sure what the etiquette is there. Anyway. Hi, I’m Spencer. Dr. Spencer Reid. You’re new around here. Have we met? Before the other day, I mean.”

Sam can’t remember the last time anyone said that many words to him in a row.

“I don’t think so,” he answers. “I’m Keith. And yeah, new around here. How’d you know?”

Spencer frowns. “You don’t have to keep using the fake name. I mean, I can keep it… you know. Separate. Who you are there and who you are here.”

Sam gapes at him for a second, can’t help it. He repeats, “How’d you know?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to - never mind,” Spencer says, fiddling with the corner of the menu, where the laminate is starting to peel apart. “That was rude of me. It’s nice to meet you, Keith.”

Sam watches him for a moment, bemused. He seems self-conscious, almost embarrassed, frowning down at the bartop and tucking his hair behind his ears in a nervous gesture Sam’s all too familiar with.

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says firmly. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee would be great. I’m meeting a friend, but… coffee, for now?”

“You got it.”

It’s seven in the evening on a weekday, and Spencer’s practically inhaling his coffee, hands slightly shaky as he lifts the mug. He’s got deep circles under his eyes. Sam can relate.

“What kind of doctor?” he asks. “Surgeon?”

It’s like Spencer forgot he was there. “Hmm?”

“You said you were a doctor,” Sam prods, but he doesn’t add, _and you mentioned someone you couldn’t save._

“I have three PhDs. Mathematics, engineering, and chemistry,” Spencer says calmly. “This is terrible coffee.”

Sam looks down at the three-quarters-empty mug, decides not to comment, and circles back to his first thought: “How old are you? And… _how_?”

“I did not have a normal childhood,” Spencer deadpans. It surprises a laugh out of Sam before he notices the slightly bitter twist to his smile. “Also, I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory, but it’s been suggested that most people don’t actually want to hear about that.”

“Cool,” Sam says, and means it. “Seriously, though, what do you -”

Spencer’s phone rings, and he grabs it hastily, snapping it open with a quiet, “Yeah.”

His face changes almost immediately as he listens, goes tight and pinched and carefully blank. Sam recognizes that moment from his earliest memories. Sam _feels_ it happen: standing a little straighter, adrenaline shivering up his spine.

Spencer’s already reaching for his wallet as he says goodbye and hangs up. He throws too much money down on the bar before Sam can protest.

He’s miles away, preoccupied, when he says, “I’m in the FBI, I profile criminals. Serial killers mostly. And, um, I gotta go. Sorry.”

Sam knows his shock must show on his face, but he manages, “Good luck.”

“See you next time. At… church.” Spencer raises one hand in an awkward wave, and then he’s leaving before Sam can say that he didn’t plan to go back. Sam watches him go. Something twists in his gut, cold and achy.

He looks down and realizes that his hands are shaking; _next time_ might not be such a bad idea.

That night, Sam dreams about Dean, and his dad, and the first time they didn’t leave him behind when they walked out.

-

Spencer doesn’t sleep much, the next couple days. It’s a bad case.

There’s a moment, standing in front of the board with his maps and markers, mind whirring, when it all starts to come together. The _whole_ vanishes and all he can see is the _parts_ , thin threads woven together skillfully, and Spencer loses himself trying to follow each one. The pattern starts to emerge; he pulls at the right strings and everything starts to unravel. And it’s one hell of a pattern, really.

When it happens, the answer just appears, right there in his mind, clear as day. _Eureka_. It’s like the first time he solved a Rubik’s Cube. It’s exhilarating. Spencer’s so lost in the puzzle this time that he feels _gleeful_ , at that last moment of discovery.

Then he shakes himself out of it, takes a step back, remembers that this isn’t textiles they’re talking about here. It’s just a trail of dismembered bodies.

They’re too late to save the last victim. Her eyes are open. She won’t stop staring at him.

He usually takes a nap on the plane as they fly home. He doesn’t bother trying this time.

Spencer knows that he needs to sleep. Persistent sleeplessness will impair his ability to function. Deep sleep allows the brain to strengthen the neural connections that make up memories; it’s crucial for consolidating memories, allowing the brain to turn short-term memories into long-term. He knows this, logically.

The illogical part of him insists that he has more than enough memories already. They’re right there, whenever he closes his eyes. He’s drowning in them.

-

For a moment, Sam hesitates, imagining what Dean would say: _Just gonna spill your guts in front of a bunch of strangers? What good’ll that do? Can’t friggin’ talk your problems to death, Sammy._

He imagines the look on his dad’s face and gives it a mental middle finger.

“Hi, I’m Keith.”

(“Hi, Keith.”)

Spencer’s watching him intently. He was late, today, and he looks like hell, eyes sunk in bruised rings, jiggling his foot so quickly and incessantly that it seems like he’s vibrating in place. He’s spent most of the meeting so far looking down at his coffee cup like it held the secrets of the universe. He’s watching Sam now, though.

“I moved here because I didn’t trust myself any more,” Sam says slowly. “And I needed a fresh start. I needed to get away for a little while. My brother wasn’t going to let me forget it, if I stayed. I was endangering him.”

He clears his throat again, rubbing a fading scar on one of his knuckles. He’s been avoiding this word, but he knows he has to say it.

“I thought my… my _addiction_ would be easier to deal with, if I was away from all of it. It’s a dangerous job, what we do. What I did. I thought it was making me, um. Making me want to… use, I guess? But since I got away, it’s not the, um… the drugs I’ve been craving. It’s the rest of it. The job, and the danger. And I don’t know if that’s better or worse, I guess.”

Sam frowns down at his hands, trying to figure out how to explain what he’s feeling. His mind’s been running in circles.

“Either way, it’s not the addiction that’s the real problem, right? I am. I can walk away from my life, and I can walk away from the, um, drugs, but… I’m still me.” His throat is tight, and the words come out thick and strangled. “Can’t get away from whatever it is that makes me like this. And I’ve seen some scary shit out there, but. I’m more scared of what’s inside me. I guess… that’s all I wanted to say. Thanks.”

His heart is racing like he just got jumped by a fucking monster. He doesn’t even hear the next person who talks; all he can hear is the buzzing in his ears, like static on an old television.

Nobody ran screaming, though, when he said it. When the adrenaline wears off, he feels almost euphoric.

He sneaks a glimpse at Spencer, at one point, but Spencer’s a million miles away. He’s staring intently at the ugly linoleum, seeing something that none of the rest of them can see, and Sam knows how that feels.

Once it’s over, Sam makes his way to the table of coffee and snacks. His first instinct is to leave immediately, to walk out on all these people who know him too well, but… he really needs some coffee. He keeps his head down and tries not to make eye contact with anyone.

“I wouldn’t,” Spencer says mildly from his side, as Sam picks up a cup.

“Huh?”

“Their coffee is even worse than yours.” Spencer looks drawn and exhausted, but he’s smiling a wry little smile, and Sam can’t help but smile back.

“Got any suggestions, then?”

“On where to get your next fix?” Spencer asks. The woman next to him gives him an incredulous look, which Spencer doesn’t seem to notice. Sam almost laughs.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“There’s an excellent diner a couple blocks away. I can give you directions if you’d like.”

“What, are you trying to quit?” Sam casts a pointed look down at Spencer’s long-empty cup, which he’s been absentmindedly shredding as they talk.

“Oh. No, I guess I could use another cup as well.”

“Come on then. Lead the way.”

Spencer blinks at him, frowning. “You’re asking me to go with you?” 

“Wouldn’t mind company. And you’re the only friend I’ve got in this town, so far.” Sam shrugs.

The grin Spencer gives him is equal parts puzzled and pleased. His face twitches like he’s trying to tamp it down, but he says, “Okay, then.”

-

It’s been awhile since Spencer made a new friend, and he spends most of the walk down the block trying to remember which questions he should ask, trying to figure out how he should strike up a conversation without being rude or overly personal or just plain weird. Sleep deprivation isn’t helping. The conversation starters that keep jumping to the tip of his tongue are things that would definitely make Morgan walk away from him mid-sentence.

Somehow he doesn’t think “Keith” wants to know about how bioluminescent bacteria healed the wounds of Civil War soldiers. (He can’t help putting the mental air quotes around the name, still. He knows it’s a lie.)

“Keith” doesn’t seem to notice the quiet. It’s about half a block before he asks, “Serial killers, huh?”

Right. That does tend to be a subject of interest, even for normal people.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I do, mostly.”

“You didn’t strike me as a Fed.”

Spencer shrugs. “I get that a lot. I’m a profiler. I analyze their past behavior in order to predict future behavior.”

“Huh. So can you tell me about the case the other day, or is that classified?”

“It didn’t go well. Um… we’re here.”

They’re both quiet as they’re seated, but once they’ve ordered their coffee, “Keith” says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s alright, I - I don’t mind, actually?” He’s almost surprised to find that it’s true. “It’s… good for you, to talk about trauma. Exposure therapy. Right?”

He grimaces. “I wouldn’t know. My family’s not big on talking.”

Spencer almost gets distracted by that statement, but he makes a mental note to come back to it later.

“We didn’t get there in time,” he says, with the practiced matter-of-factness that he affects when he has to talk about these things like they’re not excruciatingly painful. “We couldn’t save the last girl.”

“But you got the killer?”

“Yes. But I keep seeing her face, and it’s… she’s not the only one. Not the only failure.” 

His hands are shaking. He flexes his fingers, tries to stretch some of the tension out of them. Their coffee arrives, and Spencer burns his tongue on the first greedy sip.

“That’s why you’re not sleeping?” “Keith” asks, and Spencer raises an eyebrow at him. “I don’t have to be a profiler to figure out that you haven’t slept in at least thirty-six hours. I’ve been there.”

“Yeah. I can’t close my eyes without seeing them. It would be really nice, right about now, if I could just… forget for a little while.” He shrugs noncommittally, as if it’s not a big deal to admit it. “It’s hard to care about the job, or the possibility of overdose, or… _anything_ , really, when I’m this tired.”

When was the last time he talked openly with someone who wasn’t in law enforcement? He can’t imagine telling Morgan or JJ that he would happily stick a needle in his arm right now, if it meant being able to close his eyes without seeing corpses; he _can_ imagine the looks they’d give him, if he did. If Dilaudid was easier to come by, he probably would’ve relapsed already. Any sort of opiates would do at the moment, if he’s being honest, but no dealer in his right mind would sell to someone who looks, talks, and dresses like Spencer.

“That’s hard,” is the only response. He doesn’t have that look Spencer would get from any of his coworkers; he’s not carefully composing his face to hide his pity and concern. His jaw is set and he looks unhappy, but it’s not unhappiness that’s directed at _Spencer_ , it’s all turned inwards.

It’s a relief. Spencer feels like a bug on a pin when people look at him as if he should be pitied and babied and handled with care.

He tries to smile, and says, “Yeah. It’s hard.”

“But… you’re making a difference. I _wish_ I was out there helping people.” There’s a fierce empathy in Not-Keith’s voice that Spencer’s not used to hearing from people who don’t actually know what it’s like.

Spencer is reminded of what he said earlier, about his work being dangerous. He asks, “What was your job?”

Not-Keith tucks his hair behind his ears. “Pest control.”

Spencer laughs out loud. He can’t help it. Lack of sleep is clearly destroying what little filter he had to begin with.

“Humans have a strong negative reaction in the amygdala the first time we lie, but that reaction decreases rapidly with each new lie we tell,” he offers. “It’ll be easier once you’ve been Keith for another couple of weeks.”

He frowns, cocks his head sideways at Spencer. “People lie about their identity for a good reason, sometimes. How do you know I’m not in witness protection?”

“Because they’d make you practice saying your backstory over and over again until your neurochemical reaction was negligible, and you wouldn’t have an obvious tell like playing with your hair or licking your lips,” Spencer replies.

Not-Keith is glaring at him. Spencer is reminded of countless other times he tried (and failed) to make friends. The silence stretches awkwardly, and his stomach twists.

“It’s not any of my business, sorry,” he says quickly. “Forget about it.”

“Remind me never to play poker with you. My name is Sam.”

“Oh,” Spencer says. He hides his surprise by taking a too-big gulp of coffee, and he almost chokes.

“Please don’t use it, though, if you come into the bar again. I haven’t told anyone else.”

“Why are you telling me, then?” There’s that lack of filter again.

Sam shrugs, but he hesitates, thinking, searching for the words. “I think we’re a lot more alike than you realize. And it makes me feel like I can tell you stuff. Maybe you’re right, maybe talking will help. So that’s a start, right? Being honest about my name, even if I can’t talk about the rest of it.”

Spencer turns that over in his mind for a moment and nods slowly. “Okay.”

“You’re right, anyway,” Sam says, with a dimpled smile that makes him look at least five years younger. “Lying triggers a strong negative reaction. I should stop doing that.”

“I still can’t figure out why you’re lying about your addiction. I know it’s not _drugs_ , but. Nothing else makes sense.”

“How did you - no, never mind.” Sam rubs his forehead, knuckles at the deep crease that appears there when he frowns. He looks miserable, now, and Spencer berates himself again for not knowing when to let things go.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“I can’t tell you that right now,” Sam says heavily. “Just… it has to do with my job. Can we leave it at that?”

“Do you know what your orbitofrontal cortex is?” Spencer asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he barrels on: “It’s the reward center of the brain. It’s the same system that responds to addictive substances. And… everyone experiences moments of creative insight, right? Those ‘aha’ moments. ‘Eureka’ moments. Where you solve a puzzle, and it’s not because you followed certain formulaic steps and went about it methodically. Just. Insight.”

“Sure.”

“That triggers a certain type of neurochemical reward in everyone. But some people, people who are what we call ‘reward-sensitive,’ commonly known as an addictive personality, experience an additional burst of electrochemical impulses in the orbitofrontal cortex, which they begin to associate with that moment of creative insight. That triggers the impulse, the craving, to seek out additional moments of creative insight. In certain people, the brain is effectively addicted to those moments of discovery, and creativity, and problem-solving.”

“And?”

“When I figured it out, figured out who the killer was and how he’d been hiding? I was _happy_ for a second.”

Sam’s looking at him intently. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that I understand. What you said at the meeting, about being addicted to your work, and being addicted to the danger. I get it. I meant it, last week, when I said it’d be harder to quit the job than it was to quit the drugs.”

There’s a funny series of expressions flickering across Sam’s face, and Spencer can’t read what’s happening in his head.

“It’s complicated,” Sam mutters. “More complicated than that. You’re… you’re not hurting anyone. Even if it is the same electrochemical response, yours is an evolutionary advantage. That’s the sort of addiction that drives scientific breakthroughs, it’s like… a mechanism of progress. I hurt people.”

“See, I already knew you were lying, but your level of education is another indication that you were never in pest control,” Spencer can’t help but remark. “Even if you didn’t graduate, it shows in your speech. Where’d you go to school? West coast, right?”

Sam rolls his eyes, trying to hide a smile. “Ever get old, being the smartest person in the room?” he asks dryly.

“It gets lonely,” Spencer says, and he doesn’t feel the ache in his chest until the words are already out. He clears his throat. “Not as lonely as lying to everybody around you, though.”

Sam just looks exhausted, for a moment, bone-deep. He stares down at the table with a stark bitterness on his face that Spencer can’t bear to look at for long, so he drains the last of his coffee and considers the bottom of the mug instead.

“Don’t even think about it,” Sam says sharply. “You need a nap, not another cup.”

“You’re probably right. I might be able to sleep now.”

For all that the sleeplessness is weighing him down, heavier by the moment, he feels a little better, somehow. Lighter. Cleaner. Maybe talking really is good for you. He should take his own advice more often.

Sam tucks some cash under his empty mug, waving Spencer off in a silent I’ve got it, and they both stand and head for the door.

“I’m going this way,” Spencer says awkwardly, pointing in the direction of his apartment.

“I’m the other direction. Hey, thanks,” Sam says.

“For what?”

“For… trying, I guess? To make this less lonely. It helps.”

Spencer fidgets uncomfortably, not sure what to say to that. “I’m just being honest.”

“I know. That’s why it helps. I’m working tomorrow, if you want to stop by.” Sam gives him a strained attempt at a smile and turns to go without another word. Spencer stares at his retreating back for a second (slouching again; trying not to stand out but failing miserably at it) before heading home.

-

Sam dreams of Jessica. The dream feels more vivid than his waking hours have, recently.

_You can’t run from yourself. Why are you running now?_

The words hit like a knife to the gut. It can’t be her. He can’t stop staring; she’s so _beautiful_. He doesn’t ever want to forget her face.

_Things are never gonna change with you. Ever._

She’s gone.

-

By the time he collapses into bed, Spencer’s resigned himself to seeing their faces again. He’ll just have to cope with it until he can drift off. He’s asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, though.

If he has dreams, he doesn’t remember them. 

-

Sam makes a fresh pot of coffee in the evening. He’s careful about it, too; he actually measures the grounds, instead of just dumping them in like the afternoon servers usually do. Spencer waves at Sam as he walks in, with a cautious, twitchy smile. Sam’s got a mug waiting by the time he reaches the bar.

“Thanks,” he says, and the smile settles into something more relaxed, genuine, like he’s not thinking about his expression any more.

Sam gives him a minute to settle on the barstool before blurting out the question that’s been on his mind all day: “Do you think people can change?”

Spencer gives him a _look_ , a sort of _you don’t know what you just got yourself into look_ , and takes a tentative sip of his coffee. He looks down at it approvingly and takes another before resting his elbows on the bar, steepling his fingers like a caricature of an eccentric professor.

“In terms of character, or ability to make socially-acceptable choices?” he asks.

Sam thinks about it as he turns and grabs the rack of freshly-washed glasses he’s supposed to be wiping down. “The former. I mean… not just, y’know, the things people usually go to therapy for. Things like murder, or… I don’t know. Addiction, I guess, even. But the big, fundamental things.” 

Spencer raises an eyebrow at that. “There’s a lot of debate on that subject, actually. The prevailing wisdom is that it’s not worth the investment, with the risk you’d take releasing a ‘reformed’ psychopath back into the general population. You can teach someone the tools and the coping mechanisms they’d need to make the right decisions where they might’ve formerly made the wrong one, but you can’t _cure_ psychopathy. That’s something you’re born with, and something you die with.”

Sam frowns, drying a glass a little too thoroughly so that he doesn’t have to meet Spencer’s eyes. “So that’s it? You’re born with this… darkness in you, and it’s just inevitable that you’ll start killing people?”

“Not at all,” Spencer replies. “Not all psychopaths are murderers. Many lead perfectly normal lives. Some even find that their way of thinking gives them an edge in certain fields. Business, for example.”

Sam can feel Spencer’s eyes on him. His hands twitch in an effort not to tuck his hair behind his ears.

“What separates them?” he asks. “Is there some other factor that determines who… goes over to the Dark Side, or whatever?”

Spencer grins, briefly, at that. “Not exactly. It’s more complicated than that. We say that genetics load the gun, psychology aims it, and the environment pulls the trigger.”

“Break it down for me?” Sam asks hesitantly. “Sorry, if you don’t want to talk about this, tell me to shut up, just… I’m curious. I’ve done some research about serial killers, but I’ve never met anyone who studies them professionally.”

“I don’t mind. Genetics is the first part of it. Most violent criminals have a family history of mental illness.” Spencer’s face goes carefully blank, suddenly. “Antisocial personality disorder, borderline personality disorder… schizophrenia. Those are the most common.”

“Okay. And psychology?”

“That’s an addition to the original quote, actually, and it’s more applicable to profiling specifically, but essentially, your psychology - attachment patterns, developmental challenges - determines who will eventually become the victim. And the environment is… well, everything else, pretty much. The way someone is raised, the relationships they form. All of their experiences. And there are certain early experiences that do tend to lead to future violent behavior, but certainly not always.”

“Abusive parents?”

“Frequently, yes. Or… a parent who died, especially if they died violently.”

Something cold clutches around Sam’s ribcage.

“Other childhood trauma, something like bullying. That’s frequently what you’ll see in school shooters, people who were tormented by their peers.” Spencer’s face is carefully blank again. “A parent who was absent, whether they… abandoned the family, or simply weren’t able to care for their child, for whatever reason.”

Sam’s not too wrapped up in his own head to miss the way Spencer’s blinking rapidly, gaze fixed on his coffee.

“Occasionally, serial killers will insist that there wasn’t any trauma in their past, that they had a perfectly normal childhood,” Spencer says, businesslike again, like he’s spouting off directly from a textbook.

“Bundy.”

“Like Bundy. But in many of those cases, these people simply didn’t recognize their upbringing as traumatic because it wasn’t the _overt_ sort of trauma; a lack of domestic abuse doesn’t make a happy family. Most killers grew up profoundly isolated. Lonely.” Spencer’s looking right through him, it feels like. “In most cases, if you examine a person’s history, the roots of their behavior become very clear. They’re simply perpetuating the cycle of what has happened to them. Violence begets violence. The abused become abusers.”

“But not always,” Sam prods. Spencer seems to come back to himself.

“No. Not always. Even if all the factors are there, the individual ingredients, there are people who never… succumb, I guess, is the best word? That trigger is just never pulled.”

Sam digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. He has a feeling there _is_ no straight answer, but he fucking _wants_ one.

“Why? Why can some people resist it?” he asks. He knows his voice is giving too much away, and he knows Spencer must hear it, but he can’t help himself. “Once the… environment pulls the trigger, it’s too late for you, right? You can’t change. Because you can’t just put the bullet back in the gun and pretend it never happened. But there’s gotta be something that happens, that people can _do_ , to make sure they never cross that line to begin with.”

Spencer looks at him, and the lecturing professor is gone. He looks tired and sad and very young, and Sam can tell he knows _exactly_ what it’s like to be scared of the contents of your own head and heart.

“I think about that a lot,” Spencer says softly. He shrugs. “In my line of work, I come into contact with a lot of bad people, and part of my job is to understand those people, which is bad enough, because if you can understand something you can rationalize it, really, but more than that… part of my job is thinking the way they think. And sometimes it’s too easy, and I wonder what the difference is, between them and me. If I can get in their heads like that.”

“You _are_ different,” Sam says. He feels pretty fucking certain of that.  
  


Spencer’s fake smile isn’t the same as Dean’s; it’s less of an aggressive _look how fine I am_ and more of a mild-mannered _please don’t worry about me_.

“There isn’t any scientific answer,” he says, his voice so quiet it’s like he’s talking to himself more than Sam. “But as far as I can tell… all those things that pull the trigger, your memories, your experiences, your relationships? It’s the same stuff that gives you a reason _not_ to. People can find something in their experiences that’s worth holding on to. Family. Friends. Love. Not romantic love, necessarily, because interestingly enough, romantic love is biochemically indistinguishable from severe obsessive-compulsive disorder, which is fascinating if you consider -”

“Dude.”

“Right. Sorry. Um. But they find something, something good, and they just… hold on to it, and let it anchor them. Instead of taking the violence that they endured and passing it along to someone else, they’re able to decide, _because_ of those experiences, that they never want someone to suffer the way they suffered, and they decide to break the cycle. They find something that’s worth fighting for, and they don’t let go of it.”

It takes a few deep breaths before Sam can be certain his voice won’t shake.

“So it’s just a choice?”

“Yes and no,” Spencer says thoughtfully. “Because we are essentially made up of everything that has ever happened to us; our experiences and our memories influence the choices we make in ways we can’t even fully comprehend. The good and the bad alike. It’s all part of us, and it always will be. But… you decide what to _do_ with it.” 

Sam sighs, sets down the last of the dry glasses with a little clink, and transfers them to their proper place on the bar as he thinks.

“So everything that’s happened in our past is part of the good we’ve done, too,” he says, and Spencer looks up, mildly surprised. “It’s not just what holds you back from doing the wrong thing, it’s what guides you to the right thing, as well.”

“Sure. That would be the glass-half-full version, I guess.”

“The same way an addictive personality can lead you to drug use and also, at the same time, drive you to solve crimes and help people.”

Spencer hesitates, but his lips quirk up in a smile and he nods. “Same neurological mechanism, different results. Sure.”

“All those memories,” Sam says. “The people you see when you close your eyes. The people you forget, when you’re high.”

Spencer thinks about that for a second, eyes darting back and forth like he can physically examine the statement from every angle. He huffs out a laugh.

“They motivate me. Not such a good idea, maybe, trying to erase some of the memories that have made me the person I am,” he says, and he’s fidgeting, looking down at his hands, but he’s smiling, and it’s a genuine one. “I’ll keep that in mind, next time I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sam replies.

He’s grateful for the customer who comes through the door at that moment, because his throat is suspiciously tight. The guy sits down at the other end of the bar and Sam goes to take his order.

When he comes back, he refills Spencer’s coffee, and then there’s an awkward moment where they both look at each other. Sam has no idea what to say. He’s not sure if he can handle any more honesty today.

“Have you ever heard of the Battle of Shiloh?” Spencer blurts out, and immediately looks like he regrets it.

Sam grins. “That was the one with the bioluminescent bacteria, right? Angels’ Glow?”

“Yes!”

-

On the jet, Spencer dreams about high school, again. He hears the laughter, the whispers: _freak_. He watches them all walk away, one after another, until he’s alone.

When he snaps back into wakefulness, tense and angry and ready to run, it’s just Morgan sitting there watching him. He’s got a hand extended in the space between them, like he was just about to wake Spencer up, and he’s got that concerned, handle-with-care look on his face that makes Spencer squirm.

“You okay?” Morgan asks. Spencer takes a moment to think about it.

“Yeah,” he says evenly. “I think I am.” 

The dream is still fresh in his mind, though, when they start working the case.

The details of the killings start to come out. Spencer’s not even surprised. He would laugh at the timing of that dream, maybe, if he wasn’t so busy fighting the urge to vomit. Why do high schools all seem to smell the same?

When he puts himself between the gun and the kid, he’s not thinking of Hotch’s reaction, or the team, or the law, really.

He’s thinking about Sam. He’s thinking about the kid who died on the bathroom floor, and all the other people he couldn’t save. He’s thinking about Alexa Lisben, and the field house, and all the people who walked away when he needed help.

“I know the harder you tried, the worse it got. And it felt like everybody just stood there watching you suffer, and not a single person even tried to help.”

_Please. Let me help._

“They didn’t.”

“I know you want to escape… and forget. Believe me when I say I know–I know exactly how that feels.”

_I’m not going to walk away._

The kid’s face crumples, and he sets the gun down.

Spencer’s still angry, but he’s not going to let it drown him. Not today. He’s holding on.

-

Sam dreams about Lucifer.

 _So. This is your life now? Think you can just live forever with your head buried in the sand?_  
  
Sam says, _People can change. There is reason for hope._

For the first time in a long time, he believes it. He’s going to hold onto it.  
  
_No, Sam. There isn’t._  
  
_It had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you._

Sam wakes up angry. He wants to claw himself open, dig through the flesh and guts until he can rip out whatever dirty thing has been hiding inside him his whole life, stitch it up with dental floss and scrub the blood from his hands. He wants to run.

_Find something good. Hold onto it._

What has he been holding onto, all these years?

Dean, of course. Dean’s always been his anchor, the thing that keeps him human, the thing that stops him from pulling the trigger.

Sam remembers the disgust in Dean’s eyes, when he found out about Ruby. The crawling, creeping, coppery shame in his gut is still the same, still as sharp as the first time he felt it; he hasn’t been able to run from it. It’s part of him.

He’s not sure how he’ll be able to look Dean in the eyes. It’s gonna hurt like hell.

Sam can take a little pain. He’s not letting go again.

-

Spencer can’t stop jiggling his foot. The meeting was supposed to start three minutes ago, and Sam’s not here.

Logically, he knows that Sam is probably just working. Maybe he had to cover for someone at the last minute; these things happen. The illogical part of Spencer’s brain is concerned.

When he sees the group leader getting ready to welcome everyone, he gets up, almost spilling coffee all over his neighbor’s lap, and heads for the exit.

There’s a petite blonde behind the bar.

“Is Keith here?” Spencer asks.

“Are you Spencer?” she asks. “He left something for you.”

She fishes an envelope from the register.

“Oh,” Spencer says blankly. He takes it with numb fingers and turns it over, hands shaking. Sam’s handwriting is different from Gideon’s. He walks out without another word.

He almost doesn’t open it. He knows what’s coming, now. What’s the point? He walks about a block without really seeing anything, fiddling with the envelope in his hands.

He sits down on a random stoop and opens it.

> _Sorry I couldn’t say goodbye. Something urgent came up that made me realize it’s time to stop running, go home, and decide what to do with all the shit I’ve been trying to forget. Can’t tell if it’ll be a redemption or a relapse. Maybe both._
> 
> _This probably doesn’t make any sense._ _You probably think I’m a serial killer, or something, at this point, and I promise I’m not. (That’s what they all say, I bet.) I’m sorry I couldn’t explain more._
> 
> _Thanks for everything. If you’re ever having trouble sleeping, or if you’re thinking about quitting, you should call me._

  
There’s a phone number, but no signature. Spencer sits there for a minute, folding and unfolding the paper absently, waiting for his eyes to stop stinging.

This is probably the best thing for Sam. Spencer knows that, logically. This wasn’t about him. He _knows_ that. He’s still angry.

Spencer’s phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket, already feeling the adrenaline shiver up his spine. Time to go. Someone out there needs help; he can’t quit on them now.

  
-

> “ _We are our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.”_
> 
> _Tom Robbins_


End file.
